


Full Circle

by Jael_Lyn



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:40:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1876848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jael_Lyn/pseuds/Jael_Lyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim knows what he wants but not how to get it.</p><p>There's a connection between this story and Pomp and Circumstance, but this story stands on its own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

Sandburg is gone, away for four days at a computer conference. I hate losing my partner, even temporarily. I knew I was sunk the minute Simon stormed out of his office, surveyed the troops, and let his eyes rest on Sandburg. In fairness to Simon, who else could he send? Rafe and Brown do okay, and my total lack of patience with all things computer - well, we don't need to go there. They want this new system to work. Even if I made it through the lectures in Olympia, at some point I'd end up chucking equipment through the windows. Great press for Major Crime. Civilians slaughtered by computer components from the sky. It was a no-brainer. Sandburg officially became our new systems expert and packed his bags.

So, he's there and I'm here. The loft's cold because he's not here to complain about the heat and turn it up when I'm not looking. All my meals are WonderBurger, and the tube is permanently set on ESPN instead of searching for some documentary. I should be having a great time. After all, Sandburg slapped me on the back on his way out the door, cracked some jokes about reclaiming my territorial imperative, and told me to have a ball while he was in Olympia. But the boxes are in the corner and I'm miserable. 

Oooh. The boxes. Now they're the problem. I sit here staring at them, trying to wish them away. Sandburg didn't say anything. I shouldn't jump to conclusions, but I have a history with these boxes. They've been in the basement. Initially, I wasn't happy about them being there. Sandburg explained it, and I've replayed that conversation in my head, over and over, for almost a year.

__

"You're not completely wrong. I was avoiding graduation. And I did pack up my books and the other stuff because it was hard to always walk in and see them here. What you need to understand is that I didn't throw them away. I put them away, just to get some space."

"I don't get it, Chief. Try again, OK. I'm the throwback, remember?"

Blair sighed. "If you break your leg, why do you get a cast and crutches?"

"Well, duh, Sandburg. To give it time to heal."

"Exactly. I still need a crutch, but it won't be forever. When it isn't so raw, I'll read anthro for pleasure and enjoy a graduation. It's just too soon. It takes time, Jim. Don't be impatient with me."

"Impatient? That sounds like I blame you, and I don't."

"No, but you blame yourself. You want it to be better, and it makes you uncomfortable and frustrated that you can't fix it. It runs counter to the Blessed Protector instinct. If I can leave the hurt, you can leave the guilt. If not tomorrow, then the day after. Or the day after that." 

I may be slow, but I can take direction. Insert laugh track here, but it's true. Every time I start thinking Sandburg would be better off at the University with his Ph.D. hanging on the wall, I replay the video in my head. Remind myself that Blair Jacob Sandburg is a smart guy, and if he says things are okay, then things are okay. Which brings us back to the boxes.

I should be happy. The boxes are out of the basement, back from exile. The books, the artifacts, the trappings of another life aren't on the Sandburg hurts-too-much-to-look-at list, just like he promised. A-okay, smooth sailing, all systems go, Houston we have lift-off. Except...

He didn't unpack them.

They're not in his room.

Ergo, he's moving out. I just know it. Those damn boxes are telling me, and I understand their language just fine, thank you very much.

This is where the rest of North America rolls their eyes and calls me stupid. I can just hear it. _You're a detective. How do you get from boxes to he's moving out, for God's sake? Get a grip_.

But they'd be wrong. I am a detective, and Blair Jacob Sandburg is my special area of study. I just have to connect the evidence, and combine it with my intimate knowledge of Sandburgology. 

Clue 1: He knows I'm not using his rent money, and it ticks him off that I won't take his money. I've been depositing the checks in a savings account since the beginning, not really knowing why at first. We didn't discuss it. He opened the bank statement by mistake. For a social science guy, he did the math pretty quick. Months times rent = Jim's stashing my checks. Dammit, it's for his student loans. A little bird is going to drop the cash on those babies pretty soon, all nice, neat and anonymous. Unfortunately, now he knows. He has...issues with it.

Clue 2: He's been looking at the rentals in the paper. Never at home, mind you. Always in the break-room, and he's real careful. Probably doesn't want to upset me. I know, he could be looking at something else. What's next to RENTALS in the classifieds? PETS? I can see it now. Detective Sandburg, making surreptitious surveys of the adds to find the perfect purebred gerbil. He's looking at rentals and he's moving out.

Clue 3: These unpacked boxes coincide with his tax return. Sandburg has never had enough money to pay tax, but this year he's getting a refund. Only it's not a refund in the traditional sense. Traditional, as in let's take the mad money and get a new toaster, or buy new tires for the rig, or pay off the credit card. It's first and last month's rent, and the security deposit, that kind of a refund. Damn the IRS.

Clue 4: Because I know it. It's the boxes. End of discussion. So sue me.

I've done the investigation, reached a logical conclusion, written the report. Now I need a plan, because the truth is, I really don't want Sandburg to move out. I keep the house rules and the Tupperware just for appearances. It's part of my image. So here I am, in my cold loft with the Mariners on the tube, considering the possibilities. In true covert ops style, leave no stone unturned, but not every idea is a good one. Here's my list so far.

Destroy/hide all copies of the Cascade Morning Tribune. Tempting, but not practical. Even if I could get the print copies, they have the classifieds on the web, and Sandburg is the shiny new computer guy. Hopeless.

Tell him he can't move because the Prize Patrol won't be able to find him next time around. Right. He was raised by Naomi. He knows better.

Tell him he can't move because Naomi wouldn't be able to find him. Double right - he'd be rolling on the floor with that one. No one can find Naomi, but it's never been a problem the other way around.

I could let him find a place, then call in a few markers and have it condemned. Earthquake damage, vermin, electrical code violations. I could do it. Downside is that I would run out of markers before he ran out of potential places to rent.

Make the tax return disappear. If he has no refund, he can't get a place. Personally, I give this one points for logic. It involves the government, so it has promise. They screw up all the time without help. With my intervention, who knows? If he has no refund, he can't get a place. This one's a keeper.

Create a disaster so he'd feel guilty about leaving. Not bad on the surface, but I suspect it sums up years of our relationship. It might work, but I can't do it. I can live with myself being a clueless, insensitive clod on an occasional basis. Being a deliberate, insensitive clod crosses the line.

Back to the rent money. Maybe if he thinks I need the money, he'll stay. So, why do I need the money? The scheme bogs down here. I drive a beater truck. I've become kind of attached to it and I don't want to replace it. I have a twenty-year old refrigerator. I don't take vacations. I'm not educating the kids. My subsistence level is pretty damn low. He'll never buy it.

I have more, but they're all equally pathetic. I'd call Simon or Joel for ideas, but it's just too embarrassing.

Seriously, why did he stay here in the first place? He was broke and the backseat of a Corvair away from being homeless. He was desperate. He was sheltering an ape. Now realistically, how can anyone, I mean anyone, recreate those kind of conditions? 

I want to scream. I've seen three-year olds with better reasoning skills. No matter how you package it, what am I really asking? Gee, Sandburg, you have an education and a steady job now, but please keep living in a rabbit warren under the stairs with a guy that won't let you have sex in your own home and color codes your leftovers. Real attractive. I'm sure my charming, flexible personality will just be the icing on the cake. If I can't offer something better, he has every right to move out.

I have three days before he comes back from Olympia. Then he's gonna get his refund check and be loading up the U-haul. I need a plan by then. The Mariners are still playing away and they're behind. Two outs in the 9th. They need a home run.

Come to think of it, so do I.

&&&&

"Jim? Hey, Jim! You here, man?"

It's good to see him. He's grinning from ear to ear. He used to come home from Rainier like this, when he'd taught a really good class or gotten involved in some new project. Simon should be glad it's Friday. He'll have a couple of days to calm down before we turn him lose to reprogram Major Crime.

The laptop is out before I know it. Show and Tell time, ala Sandburg. I'm going to let him wind down a little bit before it's my turn. It takes two beers, a pizza, and two hours before I can get a word in edgewise. Who knew a statewide reporting system could be so engrossing?

I hand him the disc, my disc, the one I had burned yesterday. In it goes and he does a double-take. He's expecting fingerprints and gets blueprints. He starts to pop it out of the drive, figuring it's an accident. Not gonna happen. This is no mistake.

"Uh, Jim, why am I looking at floor plans?" He grins. "Did the remote get stuck on HDTV or something?"

"Ha ha. Look closer."

"What am I looking at?" He gives me a quizzical look. "Jim, is this the loft? It can't be...there are pieces missing. So what's the joke?"

"No joke. Everything's there, it's just moved around a little." I click the mouse a couple of times. "Actually, there's extra - kind of another floor."

"Uh, Jim...it says 'Blair's Room' and it's not under the stairs."

"I know."

"Want to tell me why?" 

"Because you deserve better, and you're getting ready to move out."

"Who said I was moving out?"

"Your boxes."

"Jim, are you talking to the spirit animals again. Boxes don't talk. Just thought I'd point that out."

"Yours do."

"I don't know what to say. You didn't..."

"I do. Say yes. Unpack the boxes and say yes."

There's a moment when I can't tell, when it might go either way. I can't breathe. I watch his eyes, waiting for an answer.

"Maybe I should wait with the boxes...until after, you know? Unpack when it's done? Would that be okay?" And then he smiles.

That was hours ago. Sandburg finally ran out of energy and crashed on the futon, but only after I explained every detail of the architect's plans. I think we're decorating in Early Tribal or something, which is okay since it requires his participation, which sort of guarantees that he has stick around. How's that for cause and effect? Now I'm sitting here in the dark, on his boxes, watching the lights over the harbor. These boxes and I, well, we've come full circle. From broken and sad, to getting it together, to time to leave, but it's okay now. They've promised to come home for good.


End file.
